


awake, dear heart, awake

by ohmymaple71



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M, Meet-Cute, New York City, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, if u wanna call it a meetcute ig, stupid amounts of shakespeare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-07-11 08:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymaple71/pseuds/ohmymaple71
Summary: Blood Gulch Theatre is not the place where earth shattering, mind twisting revelations are made. It is run down, it is old, and the grandest thing it has to offer is the absolute heart every one of its regular members puts into their work. Kind of.Unfortunately, it also has 'MacBeth' carved into the stage, so nobody is really sure why they ever expected more from it than that.or;Simmons is a chronic mess with a real knack for memorization and an uncanny ability of slipping into different roles like they were masks. Grif is an equally unlucky cellist with very pretty eyes and a strong sense of bullshit. Somehow, some way, they meet in the middle and neither of them are exactly happy about it.





	1. most friendship is feigning, most loving is folly

When Simmons met Grif, it was out of sheer annoyance, much like the majority of their relationship. It was January, and it was in New York, and like every other story that starts in New York goes, theirs began with hope. With big dreams and creativity, artistic souls fighting to be freed and as fucking usual, shitty lighting.

 

You see, not only was the weather the fucking worst thing to come since probably, like, 1954 or something, but it was a Tuesday. Nobody liked Tuesday. It was just a Day and it got in the way of the other days, and while a part of Simmons felt strongly that Tuesday just shouldn’t exist, the bigger part of him that was always wound up so tightly with anxiety induced OCD told him no, it had to exist. If Tuesday didn’t exist, what would that make Monday? Wednesday? Did Thursday and Friday stop existing too?

 

 _Silly Simmons,_ said that stupid voice, _all days of the week needed to exist or else it wouldn’t be balanced, because seven was an odd number, was a prime number, was a number that couldn’t be divided evenly and added into fourteen, and--_

_  
_

 

And Simmons promptly lost that train of thought when he missed the stop he needed, which in turn made him later than he’d planned to this stupid fucking rehearsal and when he finally, _finally_ pulled open the doors to the old theatre he’d become a part of when he wasn’t doing school, when he wasn’t stressing about his stupid fucking grades and keeping the scholarship going, and all the dim lighting and dusty smells it had to offer. And that was when this day went from bad to worse, when it finally, officially became the worst day Simmons has had in forever.

 

 _To be fair,_ said that voice again in the same tone his sister would have used, _you have a lot of final, official worst days in forever. It’s almost like the universe really had it out for you, Dick. Maybe that says something about you, about how you think of things, how you react. A little dramatic, don’t you think?_

 

Simmons ignored it, this time. He was good at that. He was not good good at fully comprehending what, exactly, was happening right now because in their lobby, the place of quiet and sometimes Lopez, sat instrument cases. Sat people Simmons did not recognize, and that was ridiculous; he knew everyone here. The Blood Gulch Theatre was a big building, sure, but it was less national scale and more local scale, and Simmons had been in and out since he’d started university and these people were not ones he recognized. They weren’t the regulars, they clearly weren’t new actors pulled in, and while he’d never met the members of the Pit because he didn’t _do_ musicals, they all looked as surprised as he did about being here.

 

Something wasn’t adding up, here.

 

 

“Shut the fucking doors!” Shouted a voice from his left, and Simmons flushed, letting the door clang shut behind him because oh. Oh, yeah. He had been holding it open this entire time, huh? Now people were staring, because what kind of idiot did that in _this_ kind of weather and oh, oh God. This was not a good look on Simmons, he _knew_ he should have just given up when he’d woken up because this day was _not_ going to get better if they were really running lighting today, he was going to fucking _die_ because Simmons knew that voice. He understood that one.

 

That was Church, and Church was a piece of shit on the best of days, but if he was _already_ grumpy it just meant that rehearsal was going to stretch maybe another, oh, let’s say, _three hours_ and Simmons _still_ didn’t know what the fuck all these people were doing here. So he did what anyone would do in this situation when they were on as much Xanax as he was, and found the most familiar face here so he didn’t keep standing there like a fucking idiot, wondering what the fuck was going on like everyone else and so he turned to his left. Made eye contact with the man slumped in one of the probably-older-than-him chairs that were always around.

 

“For fuck’s sakes,” Muttered Church, because he knew Simmons and he knew that that deer in the headlights look the other student always had, and he knew that it meant he was going to be the unlucky bastard near enough to get the questions.

 

“Hey, Church,” Said Simmons, edging nearer and nearer until Church made a face and pulled his backpack down from the chair nearby, a clear sign that Simmons was not going to waste and he did _not_ waste time in taking it. Tugged the zipper of his coat down just enough so it wasn't obnoxious as he sat. 

 

“What, uh, what’s up?” Simmons hated small talk. Church hated small talk. Simmons did not know why he was trying to initiate small talk instead of just asking what was really on his mind, the key question of the day: what the _fuck_ is going on here? Church, despite rolling his eyes because Jesus _Christ_ , understood what Simmons was getting at anyway.

 

“Dunno.” He answered simply, flicking some notification away on his phone before looking up at Simmons again. “Walked in and all of _them_ were here, so I sat my ass down and decided I’d wait ‘til someone who _does_ know what the fuck is happening comes by. You’re not that person, I take it?” A pointed look. Not a glare, not quite- Church wasn’t soft by any means, but he’d been here longer than Simmons, knew everyone as well as every other regular did and he knew that Simmons was on the skittish side. He was a bastard, but he knew when to let up on people.

 

This, however, did absolutely fucking nothing for Simmons and by the time he went to ask another question, Church had gone back to his phone and most definitely would ignore Simmons at this point. So, having exhausted the familiar faces he could see right here, right now, Simmons opted for an anxious silence, sliding his hands into his pockets (because god, the lobby just really never warmed up, did it?) and settled in for an indeterminate wait.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Two hours past the expected start of rehearsal, and exactly seventeen of the people with the instruments ( _musicians_ his mind filled in, with the same tone that Church had used earlier) had left. The other twenty-odd mingling about were still there, although most of them had taken to sitting on the floor, not trusting the ancient chairs.

 

 

Simmons did not blame them.

 

 

Two and a half hours, and Mr. Flowers appeared. Not entered, no stage right or stage left here, he appeared. He did that, sometimes, and while some of the musicians seemed a little spooked, the small collection of their regular crew were used to it, gathered in the corner like they were. Mr. Flowers, of course, owned and ran the theatre, not that anyone would know this because of the fact that he was rarely ever there, and when he was there he was like a ghost, popping in and out at fucking whim.

 

He was, however, invested in what happened with his crews, and that was a credit to the man’s character. What was not a credit, however, was making the lot of them wait nearly three hours to explain something that he could have explained in a fucking email, or some other bullshit. It wasn’t as if it was groundbreaking. They could have done this on their own, if any of them had been willing to interact with random strangers on a _Tuesday_ , but, like, fuck that.

 

And that was how, about twenty minutes later, the whole crowd of them were shuffling into the theatre proper, majorly quiet and uncomfortable, and set about starting their individual rehearsals.

 

Because why _not_ schedule the pit orchestra and the unrelated performance of _The Tempest_ to rehearse at the same time? That was a great idea. That was _not_ going to crash and burn come tech week. Simmons was sure of it. He was very sure of it. He would bet his fucking life on this, that was how sure of it he was, because he was _not_ cold and a little bitter and a lot angry about this all, and half their fucking crew wasn’t even there. So this was great. This was a tradition he would love to carry on.

 

 

Simmons dropped his script on the stage.

 

He stared at it.

 

He wondered, not for the first time, if it was even worth picking up again today.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

At eight P.M, both sides called it quits on this whole trying to make it work thing. They’d yelled, and argued, and at one point Church had nearly fought a blonde violinist, but they’d struck an uneasy balance; the orchestra would do their tuning while the stage crew found whatever props and/or sets they were using for a rehearsal, if any, and the stage crew would do a read through of what scenes they were doing and run lines while the orchestra decided what pieces they were working on from the top.

 

That way, they could each practice with minimal overlap, and there would be less threats and disagreements like today.

 

Simmons, for his part, was just fucking glad to go home. His head was killing him, his nerves were frayed to their last fucking strand, and even _Donut_ was quiet on the trip back to their shared apartment.

 

 

Tuesdays, he decided, should not exist.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Wednesday dawned, and the snow had let up but the wind hadn’t, and in Simmons’ opinion that was worse than when it was windy _and_ snowing. It was even bitter-er of a cold. Like coffee, but if coffee was a frozen, desolate wasteland of city streets and was typically served cold because actually, fuck you, frozen coffee didn’t count. The ice made it too watery and coffee dehydrated you to begin with.

 

Terrible comparisons aside, Simmons enacted his usual routine, the steps automatic and simple and familiar and that was good, that was something he liked. Routine. Things that were familiar. That was a detail about him that he considered to be very important; he was detail-oriented. He was a fast learner. He was good at memorization. He was predictable.

 

It was what made him and Donut good roommates, actually. They shared those qualities, to some extent, and both of them picked up quickly on one another’s quirks and habits, and boom. Within the second month they’d made a routine, had made their circles and they made it work, made it flow, and it went like this:

 

 

Simmons woke up before Donut did, mostly. He couldn’t explain what it was, it was just a Thing he’d done since he could remember, waking up at 6 in the morning no matter what time he’d gone to sleep at, unable to go back. So Simmons woke up, and he stretched, and he gathered the clothes he needed, and moved on to the washroom. Toilet. Wash hands. Teeth. Shower.

 

By the time he was dressed and situating himself in the kitchen, it was usually quarter to seven. Simmons would turn their crappy coffee machine on, and settle at one of their mismatched kitchen chairs to browse through whatever pulled his fancy- usually one of the many _Star Trek_ episodes he kept downloaded- and waited until it clicked. By that point, it was a quarter after seven and Donut would pass by him to the bathroom, hair a tangled mess and eyes droopy with sleep.

 

At seven-thirty, Donut would come back into the kitchen and pull his chair to sit beside Simmons, taking the mug offered to him with a small hum, and they would stay there for the remainder of whatever Simmons had on. Quiet. Comfortable.

 

 

Neither of them were breakfast people, really, but Donut had grown up on a farm and he knew that it was important, and Simmons had grown up in a family that made every meal a family affair, and they’d look at each other and then at their cupboards and whoever got up first made the other the same thing they were having.

 

This morning, it was Donut and Cheerios, the bowl plunking down in front of Simmons the same way the other plunked beside him, and it was familiar. It was normal, and routine, and it was a moment of solace before another day began.

 

And fuck, did Simmons ever need that with the way the week was going already. He wasn't sure he'd be able to face the day without this, anymore.


	2. heigh-ho the holly, this life is most jolly

Thursday at nine in the morning, pushing the door to their shitty theatre, Simmons was thinking he was gonna need a  _ lot _ more routine solace because wow. Holy shit. He was already ready to die and it wasn’t even noon, and he was  _ late _ but not on purpose, because Simmons was  _ never  _  late and this was bad, god he was nearly an hour late and he  _ knew _ that Sarge (which, for the record, nobody knew why they called him that) had wanted to run some of the scenes he was in and oh, God, he was gonna die. This was the day Richard Simmons was going to die, for real, one-hundred percent literally.

 

_ Not the first time _ , said that same stupid, annoying little voice.  _ You’ve been convinced of that before. Very easily, actually, maybe you should get that checked out because clearly the Xanax isn’t-- _

 

And that train of thought never got finished despite its strangely helpful nature, because Simmons had pulled the door open and stepped in all angrily and huffing and--

 

_ Son of a bitch! _

 

He’d run right into somebody’s side, colliding solidly with the other person’s shoulder and something large, black and hard that, dick or no, Simmons was afraid of from sheer size alone. For a few long, eternity-feeling seconds his world was all bulk and cursing and the sound of that somebody’s instrument case hitting the ground made his fucking  _ teeth _ vibrate and wow, this wasn’t a good day either, was it? 

 

“I’m sorry!” Force of habit forced the words out of his mouth, and Simmons was already moving to try and help the man from looking like an absolute turtle; seriously, what instrument was that? Simmons didn’t think he’d seen a case that big for one thing in his life, let alone one carried like a backpack.”I’m so sorry, holy shit!”

 

The man, however, simply made a sound like air being let out of a basketball and started wiggling. It looked like he was trying to get his arms out of the straps, and that alone scared Simmons because yeah, alright, maybe he had a slight thing about people hitting him, or being upset at him in general and this? This constituted as something to be upset over. So Simmons jumped to action in the best way he knew how; grabbing the guy’s forearms without thinking that hey, maybe he should have asked first, planting his feet and pulling.

 

What he came face to face with were a set of very pretty eyes. Mismatched, for sure, but stunning in their colouration and variety; the man’s left eye was a hazel, visibly more green than the warm brown of the right one and wow, Simmons was intrigued; he didn’t think heterochromia was as common as this, or maybe he’d knocked a contact lense out? But if that was the case, why would the guy want to hide either eye? They both were nice colours, made him inter--

 

The eyes narrowed, and Simmons realized that Mystery-Nice-Eye-Big-Case-Guy was talking.

 

“--nd what the  _ fuck _ kind of person does that, anyway? I was  _ right in front of you _ , do you just walk around with your eyes shut or something? Seriously, dude, are you even listening to me?” 

 

Simmons blinked. 

 

The guy frowned even more, pulling his wrists out of the loosened hold Simmons had on them, and bringing one up to snap in front of his face. 

 

“Hello? Earth to Cinnamon, you alright asshole?” The guy’s tone had shifted, the irritation giving way to a bit of concern, just enough to be picked up as polite. 

 

It made sense, but it also kicked Simmons’ brian into drive, because huh, he really must look weird if he wasn’t saying anything and he blinked again, threw a rushed smile on his face and stepped back, stumbled a little to put some distance between them.

 

“I-- yeah, uh-- yeah.” Smooth. Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he ignored how much he knew he was going to pick this interaction apart later tonight. “Yeah, I heard you. I was just caught up in my thoughts, I’m sorry.” Guy didn’t look too contented with that, and Simmons felt a rush of panic in his chest.

 

_ Why _ did it matter so much to him whether or not a perfect stranger liked him? Come on, brain, this was ridiculous!

 

“Let me- Let me help you?”

 

Guy still looked unimpressed. Simmons felt himself getting sweaty.

 

“With your case, I mean, I’ll- I can help you move it?”

 

“No.” 

 

Shit.

 

“Ok, ok, what about-”

“ _ Dude. _ ”

 

Guy raised an eyebrow at him, and Simmons, red in the face and  _ painfully _ aware he was rambling shut his mouth so fast he clicked his teeth together. Ow. Guy stooped, and Simmons watched in tense, anxious silence as he pulled the case up with a grunt, settling it on its end to slide his arms into the straps like before, stooping from the weight for a moment before he straightened and cast a blank, uninterested look at Simmons. 

 

“Chill,” Guy said, the heat from before gone, like it had never been there. “It’s not a big deal.” And with that he turned, taking a few steps while Simmons floundered with his words, trying to find something to call him back because what did he  _ mean _ it was fine? He’d sounded angry not even two minutes ago, and nobody could displace emotion  _ that _ fast.

 

Simmons, of course, didn’t say any of that. Instead he stood there, staring at the case on the back of the guy and getting the hood of his coat full of snow for his trouble. Today was not going to be a good day, was it? Turning, Simmons pushed his hands into his pockets to get the blood flowing again, trying to shake off the anxiety and feeling of Wrong that had swelled in his chest during that interaction, focusing instead on the rehearsal awaiting him.

 

Thank god they weren’t off-book yet, because Simmons knew for a fact he’d only start to hate Thursday more if they were, his head just wasn’t in it.

 

\- - - -

 

Fridays, typically, were the one day where they weren’t rehearsing in the mornings, but in the evenings. As such, Simmons had plotted his first semester of classes around it, which meant that unlike most other days, he was out of the apartment before Donut could even subconsciously think about waking up. 

 

His usual six A.M waking time was bumped ahead, phone beeping insistently at him at 4:45 and his tired retinas easy prey to the blinding light of his dimmed phone screen. Flicking the alarm off of his screen, Simmons rolled out of bed with bleary, barely-open eyes and stumbled about his room. Clothes, sweater from the back of his chair, book-bag and laptop. Deposit everything but his clothes on the kitchen table, bathroom to pee, shower, breakfast- no. No, teeth before breakfast, Cheerios? Toast. Pills, because of  _ course _ he couldn’t function without them, why would he have a brain sufficient in its chemicals?

 

By quarter after five he was out the door, borrowed scarf wrapped tight and hood pulled up against the early morning chill of the city, trooping on to the start of his morning classes and barely restraining the yawns that threatened to make him inhale  _ more _ of the cold air he hated. God. Grow up in Pennsylvania and he’d still rather die than face a snow-drift, talk about typical.

 

Simmons considered stopping in the half hour he had before the campus opened, dropping by a local coffee shop to get something, but it just didn’t seem worth it. He was already worried about his half of rent, and yes  _ maybe _ he had no real reason to worry, but between school and the fact that the theatre always paid them later, his hours with the repair-shop had been growing short and the last thing Simmons wanted to do was make Donut carry him this month. It wasn’t that his roommate wouldn’t- the guy’s apprenticeship paid him well, and he wasn’t reliant on a scholarship to get a degree- it was just that Simmons didn’t like the implications. It would make him feel helpless, or like he was taking advantage of his friend, or that he really  _ was _ as useless as he tried not to think, or-

 

That was enough. He wasn’t doing this at five-thirty in the morning. That was ridiculous, he was too tired to work himself into a panic attack, or an existential crisis,  _ or _ an episode of anxiety and self-hate. Not happening. No thank you. 

 

And that was how the morning went- classes, notes and suppressed yawns, more homework, more assignments and at this point if Simmons didn’t have the time, he’d just figure it out. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d scribbled equations out in the wings, or the backroom.

 

\- - - -

 

Father away, just outside of a lower-end apartment block, a man in a noisy (he really should get that hole fixed), beat up truck came to a rolling-stop and turned the corner, bone-deep exhausted. 

 

Grif was  _ really _ getting tired of this whole moonlighting thing.

 

A necessary evil, sure, but he was tired of it- hadn’t he left this whole four jobs and barely anything else thing behind once Kai had started working? Had definitely left the whole barely anything else behind when she’d graduated with a scholarship, hard won, and a determination to take the engineering world by storm. 

 

Old habits die hard, he guessed, pulling into the lot that was designated for their section of the building. Here he was, splitting rent in an uneven three-way with typically enough to spare at the end of the month, and yet he still worked three jobs. He was too old for this shit, really, should just be allowed to do one job, the one he loved, in peace. But man, was that just not happening- nobody wanted a cellist without a formal education, which was stupid.

 

Grif could read music, he could play well, and he had a passion for the instrument. He knew how to play in a group, and he knew how to play solo, and  _ sure _ his girl was a little beaten up but she was taken care of, from her peg to her bow. Therefore, why should it  _ matter _ if he was ‘formally educated’ or some bullshit. It didn’t matter if he knew  _ who _ had written the music, what mattered was that he could  _ play _ the music they’d written, therefore the composer lived on or… something like that. He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell you the minute differences between Beethoven and Chopin, just the titles of what he heard, how to play them.

 

But not right now. Grif was tired, right now, could barely keep his eyes open enough to grab his bag of work clothes from the seat next to him, lock the beat up truck heèd been stuck with, and make the trek to the building. They should really invest in, like, teleportation technology soon. That would be cool- he wouldnèt have to focus on bringing every fibre of his will to walk what had to be no more than twenty feet to find out that, like usual, the elevator was broken.

 

Grif was only surprised that he’d bothered to check. 

 

Stairs, then. Up three flights, humming a listless tune that he’d had stuck in his head since his last rehearsal. Keys, door, bag by the beat-up couch cause he would put his clothes in the basket while he heated up food, and if Kai complained then she cou- was she even home? Back to the door, no shoes from either of the other two people living here, good. Tucker must be in classes, Kai was… hopefully also at classes, or at least had gotten enough sleep to not be too late to her first ones. 

 

Trekking into the small kitchen, Grif went through his options mentally and realized yep, not many. Should get groceries soon, maybe he’d go out tomorrow- he’d have time in the afternoon. For now, though, rice and whatever this leftover (pork, probably. He’d cook next time they were all home if Tucker bitched) was sounded good enough. Quick, easy, not the best maybe but… well, he had to eat before he passed out or else he’d just wake up tired  _ and _ starving, and he wasn’t gonna put himself through that during an evening rehearsal. It just wasn’t worth the struggle, really. 

 

Fifteen minutes, a little boiling water and some microwaving later and he had a bowl of food, a few minutes of sheer exhaustion where Grif  _ hated _ the silence that reigned around him, and then he was finally,  _ finally _ able to do what he’d wanted to do since he’d gone in at six the night before: sleep. Uniform shucked in favour of comfortable clothes, he barely took the time to pull his curls up before he was down for the count. 

 

Eight hours later and Grif was less tired, at least. Still exhausted and weary, but less tired- it was amazing what eight hours of sleep could do after a twelve-hour shift and the anticipation of playing. Which, speaking of, was what he wanted to do- rolling over, he grappled blindly for his phone to shut his alarm off. God, he was aching. 

 

Pulling himself up, he took stock of things- tired. There was muffled sounds from outside his room, sounded like Kai at least was home. Wouldn’t surprise him if he didn’t see Tucker until he got back from his ridiculous rehearsal tonight, and hopefully not during. What a nightmare, the amount of people in that theatre Grif was  _ certain _ wasn’t up to the fire standards, and  _ none _ of the acting crew seemed to have any fucking manners. 

 

Church exempt, of course. He’d known that assbite didn’t have any from the minute he’d met him at one of Tucker’s stupid parties. 

 

But that wasn’t his concern right now- tucking his phone into the pocket of his sweaters, Grif pushed himself up and stretched, relishing in the popping sounds before he realized hey, maybe that wasn’t so good. 

 

Whatever. 

 

Swinging his legs out, he took the time to make his bed before pulling out clean clothes and, those thrown over his arm, padded out into the land of the living.

 

\- - - -

 

After catching up with Kai, who was watching some dumb action movie and piling her way through end-of-the-week assignments for her classes, Grif had ascertained three things:

 

  1. Kai was absolutely going to be party-jumping tonight, so he was going to be sleeping light.



 

  1. He still understood none of what she was talking about the instant she started talking about molecular reactions but, damn, was he ever proud of his baby sister for telling him about it, and,



 

  1. Tucker wasn’t here because he was going to the theatre with Church, which meant that yeah, the orchestra was going to be practicing alongside the stage-crew again and fuck, did he ever hate the prospect of that. 



 

That hatred, though, softened a little when he’d excused himself to jump into the shower, phone left in the kitchen to keep the moisture out because their window never really did anything with the steam even if it  _ was _ cracked, and Grif found his thoughts wandering as he lathered the shampoo into his hair.

 

On one hand, he hated shared rehearsal spaces. It meant that there was confusion, and distraction, and he never really felt like he was going to accomplish what he set out to do with the piece and sure, alright, maybe he was only second chair but as a whole there wasn’t much to expect with the cello. They were bass-y, they were soft, and they mostly stuck to the background. There was no fuckign reason for him to be having so much difficulty with a shared rehearsal space when they weren’t even within five  _ feet _ of the stage and its crew.

 

Not to mention, the group that were up there were possibly the  _ most _ annoying group he’d ever had the misfortune to be stuck with. They were loud, they seemed disorganized, and if it wasn’t Sarge yelling it was someone else trying to yell over him, or pointless comments to lines, or something else that he didn’t think had to be done yet but hey, what did Grif know? He was just a musician. 

But  _ fuck _ if it wasn’t annoying.

 

Sure, Grif had worked in the Blood Gulch before- he wasn’t attached to them too firmly, but he’d been in most of the theatres around here, it wasn’t really anything too special. It was kind of shitty, actually.

 

Like,  _ really _ shitty. He was terrified at any moment that something would break, and he would die, or plummet to his death, or  _ watch _ someone else fall and die and plummet to their death and how the  _ hell _ did their stage crew move so confidently on those catwalks because he could  _ hear _ them rattling and honestly? No thank you. It looked like bats should live there.

 

Grif shivered, feeling cold despite the hot water rushing over him, and scrubbed the soap out of his hair. He didn’t want to think about bats right now.

 

On the other hand, though… it seemed kind of familiar. Sure, he knew the people he played with, had gone for drinks with them enough times to know them decently enough, but the way the others interacted… hm.

 

It was stupid, but it felt familiar. He didn’t have to know the crew to know that the way they worked around each other was based on familiarity, even with the people that seemed unsure about it all. This was a group that was, in Grif’s opinion, based on years of working with each other, and there was something about that that he supposed was nice. Hell, he’d seen them arrive in groups, mostly, and even that first day where the majority of his own orchestra-mates (partners? colleagues?) had bailed, he’d been able to pick out who was staying strong easily because they were the ones that looked  _ comfortable _ in that musty, definitely rotting hell-trap.

 

Made for interesting shower-thought material, at the very least.

 

Twenty minutes later and he was mostly dry, hair dangling and dripping occasionally as he threw some instant noodles into a pot, knowing that Kai would just steal from his bowl anyway. It was fine, he’d just steal it back another time- old game between them, with a little more painful origins than he wanted to face right now. Forty minutes later he was dishing it out, two bowls with one fork and one spoon, because his baby sister was a fucking heathen who used a fork for her noodles. An hour, and he was hauling a sweater on over his worn t-shirt, hair going up and keys and wallet into his pocket.

 

“See you,” He’d called back to Kai as he hauled the case onto his shoulders. “Do the dishes!”

 

Grif shut the door on Kai’s response, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips anyway because he knew her well enough to know her answer. 

 

\- - - -

 

Two hours into this rehearsal, and nobody had any idea how anything was getting done- they were just sure that things  _ were _ getting done. Somehow. Eventually.

 

This was the last rehearsal before the cast were expected off-book, which to some of their newer talent meant it was time to stress, and crunch, and force the memorization even if they weren’t sure it was in the right order. For the older talent, it meant literally nothing.

 

Never had they had a production go on-time at the Blood Gulch- it was always wasting time and slow progress until their last dress rehearsals, where they panicked, had multiple breakdowns around the group, usually almost lost an actor, and then somehow, miraculously, made it for their show week. 

 

Except once. 

 

Lopez did not want to think about the one time they had made it happen- he wasn’t a superstitious man, but he knew enough to know that if three people were hospitalized, five small fires broke out, and he was nearly beheaded it wasn’t something pleasant.

 

“ _ What could go wrong? You drop a prop? Come on, kid! You’re an actor! Give me your best! Better! YES!” _

 

It was why, if he was dead honest, he was concerned that they were doing  _ another _ Shakespeare show. Lopez only had one head. Sarge, somehow, didn’t understand this. 

 

“What do you think?” Aforementioned man grinned, eyes flitting between him and the stage. “I think they’re doin’ just grand! New blood’s meshin’, might be our old soon!”

 

Lopez glared across at him, arms crossed firmly in front of him and notebook containing only a small scribble of a sunflower. He was not going to handle his friend’s rambling, this time. He was not going to be the super stage manager who saved the day because their director liked to act like he was incompetent until the week before they opened. 

 

He wasn’t going to do it.

 

Something crashed backstage. The brass section in the pit let out a pitiful screech. Lopez sunk further into his seat. 

 

He was  _ not _ going to do it.

 

…

 

…….

 

…………….

 

“ Oh, por el amor de Dios!” Groaning, Lopez stuck his pen behind his ear and went to check if anyone had died.

 

He was going to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Spanish to stick w/canon Lopez is, in fact, Google Translate. 
> 
> I have no explanation for why this took so long other than I'm bad at time management but also I've been chipping away at writing slowly, so slowly
> 
> eventually we'll get there 
> 
> EDIT: haha i contradicted myself, grif plays the cello and I think i edited out any places it says double bass but : / it really be dumbass hours

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm back on my bullshit again : D
> 
> This is an AU I've had in my head for a while, but that I'm finally like... alright with posting part of. There's really not too much to know other than this is my excuse to have Simmons do Shakespeare and Grif play cello. Shenanigans are, of course, included free of charge > u o
> 
> Lemme know what you think!! I can't promise when the next chapter will come, but I want to try to post once a month.


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